


And Sore Must Be The Storm

by finch (afinch)



Series: Triumvirate [1]
Category: Whatever You Want - Vienna Teng (Song)
Genre: Don't Have to Know Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 04:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2758814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afinch/pseuds/finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She waits. Sometimes she feels like that's all she does, wait. Is he coming home, is he not coming home? (Protip: he's not coming home). </p><p>This is the story she is writing, nothing but predictability, no twist endings. It is what it is, her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Sore Must Be The Storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starseverywhere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starseverywhere/gifts).



> Title is from Emily Dickenson's poem, "Hope is the thing with feathers".

She waits. Sometimes she feels like that's all she does, wait. Is he coming home, is he not coming home? (Protip: he's not coming home). 

This is the story she is writing, nothing but predictability, no twist endings. It is what it is, her life.

*

"Is he in?"

"No," comes the unsympathetic voice on the phone. "He's in a meeting."

He was always in meetings, or going places. Never anywhere where she happened to be. 

"Thanks," she says softly, as she hangs up the phone. 

He has promised to be home for dinner. But come eight o’clock, she gives up trying to keep it warm. When she hears his car in the driveway, she jumps out of bed, and stands in the doorway, elated to see him. Tonight, tonight he came home. Right now, she is happiest the nights he comes home. 

Another night, he doesn't come home, the other side of the bed left stark cold.

"Is he in?"

"No," comes the unsympathetic voice on the phone. "He had to leave late last night. Trouble at the London office, I think."

"Thanks," she says softly, as she hangs up the phone.

That was odd. He always tells her when he is leaving. She sits in the house, waiting for the sun to set. If he wasn't home by the time the sun set, he wasn't going to come home. 

This night, free of him, she is emboldened by curiosity. She goes searching in his office, the only place in the house that outwardly belongs to him. She's not looking for anything in particular, and if you asked her, she'd tell you she was looking for a way to make him stay. 

In his desk drawer, behind the old checkbooks, she finds them, stacks of tickets, stubs of the adventures he'd had without her. Places she knows there's no office. Places you wouldn't even have an office. She puts them back carefully, makes sure they're all in the proper order. That's enough looking for tonight.

"Is he in?"

"Yes, ma'am, let me transfer you," comes the plucky voice of his secretary. 

"Thanks," she says softly, as she waits for him to come to the phone. 

She loses her courage in the phone calls. She is perhaps the epitome of loyalty, the curator of a perfect museum. The house is pristine, the food gourmet, and the sex only when he wants it, on those rare nights that he comes home. She wants it to, that's her problem; she twists and claws and craves at him, and he tames the tiger, soothes the wild beast growing inside of her. 

He leaves, and she never asks him to stay, never asks him to stop with his trips. She wouldn't dare rise up against him, the punishment would be too great. His punishment is soft words, he never hits her. Instead, he tears down her worth. She exists for him. But only on the nights he comes home.

Her downfall is the sex; his rough hands rigging her to the bed. She is his willing captive, it has been so long. She is desperately wanting, and it shows. She lets him rip the dress off her her (he loves ripping the dresses off of her). His hands smell like sex that isn't hers, and she sucks them greedily until he has used her all up.

"Is there anything else?" she asks quietly, with feathers dripping from every word, the remnants of the pillow fluttering to the ground.

"No," he says, rolling to his side of the bed. "We can go to sleep now."

While he snores, she pushes her hand as deep as it will go, holds it there until she cries in pain. She repeats the process until she too, is snoring.

"Is he in?" 

"No," comes the unsympathetic voice on the phone. "The stockholders are having their convention."

"Thanks," she says softly, as she hangs up the phone. 

When he's not in - and his secretary is only ever in when he is - she looks around his office. First the tickets, then more evidence of his misdeeds, his infidelity, a lavish life they could never hope to afford themselves. It's spelled out in the credit cards, if one knows where to look. She doesn't, but she knows who she can call.

"I need some help with the credit card statements, you know how it is when he's out of town."

She can almost hear the wry smile of the accountant on the phone, "I'd be happy to."

She can stop calling after that, stop asking for permission to be anything less than what he wants. He has this idea of her, in his head, that she can never live up to. She can only wear his favorite dress, barefoot in the kitchen, and pray it's enough. When the accountant comes over, she is in jeans and socks, with boxes of takeout stacked in impossibly neat little piles on the coffee table. By the end of the night, the boxes are empty and scattered.

"Bring me the rest of his treasons," she asks, and accountant half-smiles.

"Is he in?"

"No," comes the unsympathetic voice, and she quietly hangs up before she can be given a reason. 

"Will you come over?"

He doesn't need to be asked twice; she doesn't really care about the files. She likes the art of being someone who isn't made up of someone else's desires. The accountant doesn't know who she is, so she can figure herself out around him, pick at what makes her who she is. He'll take her any way she tries herself on. 

The accountant comes over, they play a board game while drinking wine out of dixie cups. They talk about books and magic and how cooking is largely over-rated. When he comes over again, they go see an indie movie and eat at the five dollar Chinese restaurant. The next time, he brings over his music, and they dance in front of the sofa. He never touches her, she won't let him - she is faithful, still, after everything she knows. She finds herself in the silence of the accountant's patience. The final time he comes over, she is packing, a string of destinations laid out; she can be anything she wants to be. 

"Who should I give this to?" the accountant asks, and she looks at the evidence. There are her piles, neatly stacked, and there is his evidence, neat rows of fine print. 

"Give it to her, let her decide," she says, and she laughs, the sound dripping like honey off every surface in the dusty museum. "Give it to her, let her decide," she says again, throwing the red dress into the air; it flutters to the ground and softly collapses against the floor. When she turns to leave the room, she'll have looked at it for the final time. 

This is the twist ending, the knife in the back of seeming perfection; this is how it was meant to be, the story she was always meant to write.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kristin and Sarah!


End file.
